


Glory

by alyyks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adult Shiro (Voltron), Anal Sex, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Cock Rings, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Glory Hole, Multi, Multiple Partners, Porn, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Season/Series 01, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Some Plot, Strap-Ons, mention of Shiro's illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks
Summary: Shiro knew exactly how he looked, how he acted, the ideas people got about him; Shirogane Takashi the pilot, the apparent risk taker, the man with a “waist to shoulder ratio like a goddamn dorito.”Yes, there was the hovercraft riding and the midnight runs, the goals pushed always higher because he could he would he wantedhe had to, his gaze turned toward missions reaching to the edge of the solar system and the training that went with it. None of that was taking inconsiderate risks; no, all this was calculated risks.He didn't sleep with Garrison people. That did not mean he had eliminated sex out of his life—it was only another calculated variable.---or, 2800 words of porn and character study.





	Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this is coming from. Unbeta-ed.

  
Shiro knew exactly how he looked. He was tall, he was strong and flexible—thank you, double escape from stress of gymnastics and martial arts classes—he had “a jaw like a classical hero, what the fuck man.” There was a certain image he projected, and his chosen career of pilot fell right into it. Or maybe it was him who fell right into the tropes created by a couple of centuries of movies for the role of the pilot: smart, dashing, “waist to shoulder ratio like a goddamn dorito” to quote one of the other cadets on the pilot track. Shiro laughed, thanked the cadet for the compliment, didn’t think more about it, because trajectories and orbital physics were not moved by the physical attractiveness of the one calculating them, because he was playing against time, always, the clock on his physical condition running in the back of his mind.  
  
Besides, Shiro didn’t sleep with Garrison people. He had had offers, which he always turned down kindly. It wasn’t long until that was part of his image at the Garrison, too: one would find Shiro in the gym, twisting himself into pretzel shapes or demonstrating high kicks to a few of the other martial arts kids, but pretzel shapes and splits were never activities shared in between the sheets. Shirogane Takashi was aiming for the stars, untouchable and down-to-earth all at once, a man shaped into the ideal of a pilot, of a student, of an action movie hero.  
  
Thing is, without the details of illness and running against time he kept to himself, that could led someone to believe that Shiro was a risk taker. Yes, there was the hovercraft and the midnight runs, the freefall training, the goals pushed always higher because he could he would he wanted _he had to,_ his gaze turned toward missions reaching to the edge of the solar system and the training that went with it. None of that was taking inconsiderate risks. No, all this was calculated risks—velocities, trajectories, administrative inertia, internal politics, health monitoring, all weighted, quantified, calculated as best as one could. There was rarely a moment of the day where Shiro was not in control, or at least aware of the top five possibilities coming out of the situation he was in.  
  
Eliminating sex at the Garrison as a student was merely eliminating one variable to calculate for.  
  
But that did not mean eliminating sex out of his life all together.  
  
+  
  
When he goes to _Glory,_ he’s as prepared as he can be without having ever stepped foot in the club. There are no pictures of the interior of the place online. So it’s a recon, and also releasing tension. Shiro has the weekend free, drove 300km west to lose himself in a city where people don’t know him and won’t see him as “Shiro, the pilot.” Worse come to worse, he’ll get into the club, won’t like what he sees, will leave. Best, he has a good time, someone buys him a drink, and he goes back to his hotel room with someone he’ll never have to see again. Absolute best option… well, there’s a reason the club is called Glory, there’s a reason Shiro went and looked it up, there’s a reason he’s doing recon.  
  
The music is good, the drinks cheap. There’s a good vibe to the place, a good mix of people—it’s not just one segment of the population, and the dancing is not 100% at clothed sex level. Check check check.  
  
He keeps going after an hour and two drinks, only one he bought for himself. After the restrooms, there is another door kept ajar, with another bouncer parked in front. Shiro can see nothing but wood panels, can’t hear anything over the bass from the dancing floor.  
  
“Customer, offering or just curious?” The bouncer asks. Shiro doesn’t miss the look he’s given, up and down and lingering at the width of his shoulders under his almost-too-tight black shirt, at his hips and the strip of tanned skin between shirt and waistband of his jeans. The cuffs at his wrists that are too sleek and large to be fashion accessories are barely included in that glance.    
  
“Curious,” Shiro answers, licks his lips. “Interested in offering.”  
  
The bouncer smiles. “Wanna talk to someone about it?”  
  
_It’s recon, it’s recon_ , Shiro has to remind himself. It wouldn’t do to get too excited at this point. His first impression is good, but there could still be a no somewhere. He can still walk out.  
  
“Yeah,” Shiro says.  
  
The bouncer presses their earpiece and a man walks out of the ajar door, gives Shiro the same assessing look as the bouncer and a wide smile. He has very blue eyes and dimples, short hair, a runner’s built.  
  
“Come on in,” he says, and Shiro follows him with butterflies in his stomach, the good kind, the freefall kind. “It’s still a bit early,” the man says, “so it’s not very busy yet,” and Shiro knows that the butterflies are want and desire warring in. It’s a small-ish room behind that, three holes on each side. Out of one hole at his right, there’s half a person hanging out, feet in the air and locked on the wall, ass being eaten out by a man with his dick out. The other two holes are empty. On the other side, there’s a dick hanging out of a hole, and a person plastered against the next hole, panting.  
  
“There’s a bouncer out and a bouncer behind the next door, so it’s constantly monitored. Nobody horribly drunk goes in, same for bottles, glasses and any other thing that has no business behind there. If you want to be on the receiving end,” and there’s that look again, and Shiro can feel it running on his spine and raising every hair on his body, “there’s a quick contract, mostly that guarantee that you know what you were getting into and that you took all precautions. I take you in by the little door, you get prepped, by yourself or someone, your choice, then you get in your cabin and you enjoy. Ten minutes in, someone checks on you, and then every fifteen minutes after that—and you can leave anytime. Any questions?”  
  
Shiro’s not hard. It’s not that kind of excitement—or maybe it is and he never did know the difference.  
  
It was just supposed to be recon. He goes in though the small door.  
  
“First,” the beautiful man says. “Contract. Takes your time reading it, let me know if you have a question.”  
  
Shiro reads it. There’s nothing weird—the illness clause doesn’t apply to his situation. He signs.  
  
“Prep?” the beautiful man says. Definitively a runner, his jeans hid none of the long muscles of his thighs. He waves at a shelf above the padded table that takes most of the small room, with one-use packets of lube, latex condoms, spray condoms, boxes of tissues, other things Shiro doesn’t recognize on sight.  
  
“I got my shots,” Shiro says, “but I’m not opposed to getting lubbed by you.”  
  
“Flattered. You have used spray condom before? Takes you pants off and lean on the table whenever you’re ready.”  
  
“Yeah.” Spray condom is just what it sounds like—insert the capsule, it covers everything with a completely safe barrier that can stretch and take in a lot. To remove it, take a shit. Fantastic technology.  
  
“Relax man,” the beautiful man says.  
  
Shiro relaxes as much as he can, ass out—and groans when he slips on the cock ring he had kept in his pocket just in case, his dick half hard and getting more and more interested. He wants to enjoy this.  
  
The beautiful man’s hands are smooth and cool on his skin, his fingers soft and slippery on his hole. It feels good—it feels better when he pushes in with one finger, pressing around. It doesn’t take much to feel great—Shiro had been ready. Shiro plucks at his nipples through his shirt, exhales when the beautiful man’s clever hands tug at his balls.  
  
“Larger now,” he says, and Shiro can feel the smooth hardness of a sex toy pressing in, stretching all around. He wants.  
  
It takes a minute to get used to that stretch, but it’s a good minute. He forces himself not to hump the table he’s leaning against.  
  
“Larger,” he says, and the toy inflates. And again, at regular intervals. It feels—big, and good, and certainly bigger than his own cock.  
  
“Condom now,” the beautiful man says, and Shiro moans at the loss of the sex toy. It’s inflated to the size of a normal cock, and Shiro can’t wait to get a real one in him. The condom deploys, fine spray cool inside.  
  
“You all ready, man,” the beautiful man says, “you good?”  
  
“I’m great,” Shiro says.  
  
The cabin is not much from the inside, a padded bench at hip’s height and a couple hooks for his things, the one door and a hole he passes his legs and hips through. There are flaps of dark soft plastic that make it impossible for him to see on the other side—and for people on the other side to see the rest of him. It feels a bit stupid to be laying there with his dick and legs out on the other side, then he can hear the beautiful man warning him that he’s locking him in now, feeling his hands on his legs, raising them up and locking them in place, spread open. Shiro’s dick twitches.  
  
And then it’s the wait. There’s someone on his right, moaning and panting. There isn’t much noise, just a vague feeling of music and bass coming from the main room. He feels…oversensitive, feeling the tiniest breeze on the other side. He can’t let himself think about what he’s doing—he just have to feel. He kept his shirt on, spends a couple moments wondering if he should have taken it off, the fabric rubbing all over with each move he makes, in a way that could become too much, too fast.  
  
The first touch is unexpected—of course that’s the point—and immediate. He feels a hand on his ass, and then the soft-hard feeling of a dick head pressing against his hole—pressing and pushing and going in, and even with all the slickness of lube the penetration punches a breath out of him. The person fucking him loses no time, pistoning in and out without stop or finesse, in, out, the few points of contact burning like a brand. It doesn’t take long for that fuck to go faster, until the cock leaves him entirely. He can feel ejaculate on him after. He can feel his hole open and yearning. He wants to come, he wants to stay there on the edge, he wants a dick in him, hands on him, a touch.  
  
He’s not Shiro on the other side of that wall, he’s an anonymous, attractive piece of ass who gave up as much control as he could, as he would.  
  
Nobody is going to brag having bagged Shirogane Takashi the pilot. All they know is a pair of legs, an asshole and a dick. It’s liberating.  
  
The beautiful man knocks in, check on him, and leave. Shiro’s great.  
  
The second one has large, warm hands, calluses and slightly long nails, and they just touch him, all over he’s out in the open. It becomes…overwhelming, never sure when it’ll be rough, soft, a graze, more pressure, less, his dick, his ass, around his hole, the inside of his thigh along his adductor. He whines, rubs at his chest with his hands, his nipples hard under the thin shirt. The first light slap makes him tense all over, on the outer side of his ass. The second, on the inside of his other thigh, same. The nails that drag lightly over the slapped parts make him shudder, make him wish it was all over, touch touch touch until he wasn’t able to know if he was leaning in or avoiding, signals mixed.  
  
At some point, there’s the check in, and Shiro only gives a thumbs-up.  
  
The hands keep going, warm and dry and slap and caress and soft. It’s good, it’s great, he can feel the buildup that leads to great time coming in, but he won’t come from the large hands touching him all over alone. They only touch under the head of his dick once, a parting caress that revs him up anew, still on that edge.  
  
Shiro takes advantage of the lull after the hands left to take his shirt off. He feels hot, and tingly, and tense, in the good way, not the bad way of his body falling apart—the good way of him being in control, not having to pretend to be anything and anyone else than himself.  
  
Another check-in, another ok.  
  
The next one is cool and not a flesh dick, slick and soft, and the hands holding on to him are burning hot. They waste no time either, slipping in and bottoming immediately, fabric and metal rubbing against his ass where they are joined. A strap-on, he guesses, a good one, and yeah, it’s good, and the person knows what to do with their hands, giving him just enough to rub and hump against until they have the rhythm down—yes, yes he can feel it coming, that’s the right one, there just there inside of him like liquid warmth and he twists his nipples viciously, one more point of tension, panting against the rise of orgasm he can feel in his muscles—  
  
Maybe he’s making noise, maybe he isn’t.  
  
It stops.  
  
Shiro twists in the restraints, tries to chase the strap-on, but no, even the warm hands aren’t on him anymore. And then— pressure against his hole. He holds his breath, stills. It goes away. He whines, starts moving—it comes back. It keeps going like that, dips in, dips out, no other touch, no other point of contact, until it feels like that’s all he can feel, all of his body focused on one area, muscles tensing.  
  
“Fuck me!” he ends up saying, hands clenched on the bench on either side of his head. He has no idea if the person on the other side heard him.  
  
He’s so hard he can’t remember if he’s ever been this hard, doesn’t want to remember, just wants to exist in this moment, in this mass of feelings and sensations.  
  
The strap-on continues, dip in, dip out, waits, goes in longer, stops just at his prostate, goes away all together. There’s no rhythm, no reason, nothing to anticipate and—  
  
Shiro just has to take it. He has just enough brains to give the beautiful man a thumb’s up, and then he just… let things happen.  
  
The burning hot hands jack him off, finally, and he’s been so tense all this time his orgasm is a full body shudder, head thrown back, feet jerking in the restraints on the other side, heart racing and lungs heaving like finishing a sprint.  
  
Shiro feels full, is still full, the strap-on stiff inside him, his cock still hard thanks to the cockring. He feels like he’s inhabiting his body fully. It feels a little like floating.  
  
It becomes a little uncomfortable, fast. The strap-on going out for good doesn’t feel that arousing. Shiro moves, stretches as much as he can, which is not much in the little cabin. He’s still hard, but not so hard that he can’t take the cock ring off, his groin feeling sensitive, even with his own fingers on it.  
  
He closes his eyes and just… feel, for a moment. There isn’t another person lined up to fuck him. He can hear the banging and moaning of other people. The bass from the music in the club sounds louder, now, the breeze on his ass colder.  
  
He got what he wanted, but now he wonders if he wanted that. It was a good experience. It felt good.  
  
His leg starts to tingle, like pins and needles—too close to feeling like one of his attacks to be comfortable anymore, to want to be out and locked like he is.  
  
He knocks on the wall of the cabin. The beautiful man appears.  
  
“You good?”  
  
“Good to go, yeah.”  
  
“Had a good time?”  
  
Shiro closes his eyes and smiles a bit. Yeah, yeah he did, even if in the end, that was not what he wanted, not that he knew that before. For a moment—how long was he there for, an hour? less?—he wasn’t really himself.  
  
His legs are unlocked from the other side, and Shiro hisses at the movement of his joints, real pins and needles rushing in.  
  
Shiro stretches his arms above his head, takes his shirt back. He uses the box of tissues under the bench to clean most of what was left on him, the earliest traces already gone tacky-dry. He puts on his pants, nods at the beautiful man one last time, leaves the club, takes a self-driving taxi to his hotel.  
  
He never goes back there.  
 

**Author's Note:**

> I got a tumblr: [alyyks.tumblr.com](http://alyyks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
